Charlie to the Rescue. Robert Michael Ballantyne

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СКАЧАТЬ caught hold of a little girl of about five years of age, who was handed up by a woman.

      “Stay! keep her under cover till I get hold of her,” cried the skipper.

      As he was passing from the mast to the companion a heavy sea burst over the bulwarks, and swept him into the scuppers. The same wave wrenched the child from the grasp of the man who held it and carried it right overboard. Like an eel, rather than a man, Charlie cleft the foam close behind her, caught her by the skirt and bore her to the surface, when a few strokes of his free arm brought him close under the lee of the wreck just in time to prevent the agonised father from leaping after his child. There was terrible suspense for a few minutes. At one moment our hero, with his burden held high aloft, was far down in the hollow of the watery turmoil, with the black hull like a great wall rising above him, while the skipper in the main-chains, pale as death but sternly silent held on with his left hand and reached down with his right—every finger rigid and ready! Next moment a water-spout, so to speak, bore the rescuer upward on its crest, but not near enough—they went downward again. Once more the leaping water surged upwards; the skipper’s strong hand closed like the grip of death on the dress, and the child was safe while its rescuer sank away from it.

      “Help him!” shouted the skipper, as he staggered to the shelter of the companion.

      But Charlie required no help. A loose rope hanging over the side caught his eye: he seized it and was on deck again in a few seconds. A minute later and he was down in the cabin.

      There, terror-stricken, sat the skipper’s wife, never venturing to move, because she had been told to remain there till called. Happily she knew nothing of the incident just described.

      Beside her sat the other women, and, near to them, a stern old gentleman, who, with compressed lips, quietly awaited orders.

      “Come, quick!” said Charlie, grasping by the arm one of the women.

      It was the skipper’s wife. She jumped up right willingly and went on deck. There she found her child already in the life-buoy, and was instantly lifted in beside it by her husband, who looked hastily round.

      “Come here, Dick,” he said to a little cabin-boy who clung to a stanchion near by. “Get in.”

      The boy looked surprised, and drew back.

      “Get in, I say,” repeated the skipper sternly.

      “There’s more women, sir,” said the boy, still holding back.

      “True—brave lad! but you’re wanted to keep these from getting washed out. I am too heavy, you know.”

      The boy hesitated no longer. He squeezed himself into the machine beside the woman and child.

      Then up at arm’s-length went the skipper’s sou’-wester as a signal that all was ready, and the fishermen began to haul the life-buoy to the shore.

      It was an awful trip! Part of the distance, indeed, the trio were borne along well out of the sea, though the waves leaped hungrily up and sent spray over them, but as they drew near the shore they were dipped again and again into the foam, so that the little cabin boy needed all his energy and knowledge, as well as his bravery and strength, to prevent his charge being washed out. Amid ringing cheers from the fishermen—and a treble echo from the women behind the wall—they were at last safely landed.

      “My lass, that friend o’ your’n be a braave cheeld,” said an old woman to May Leather, who crouched beside her.

      “Ay, that he is!” exclaimed May, with a gush of enthusiasm in tone and eyes that made them all turn to look at her.

      “Your brother?” asked a handsome, strapping young woman.

      “No—I wish he was!”

      “Hm! ha!” exclaimed the strapping young woman—whereat there was exchanged a significant laugh; but May took no notice of it, being too deeply engrossed with the proceedings on shore and sea.

      Again the fishermen ran out the life-buoy and soon hauled it back with another woman; then a third. After that came the old gentleman, quite self-possessed and calm, though very pale and dishevelled; and, following him, the crew, one by one, were rescued. Then came the hero of the hour, and last of all, as in duty bound, the skipper—not much too soon, for he had barely reached the land when the brig was overwhelmed and engulfed in the raging sea.

      Chapter Three.

      “It’s an Ill Wind that Blaws Naebody Guid.”

      That many if not most names have originated in the character or condition of individuals seems obvious, else why is it that so many people take after their names? We have no desire to argue the question, but hasten on to remark that old Jacob Crossley was said to be—observe, we do not say that he was—a notable illustration of what we refer to.

      Jacob was “as cross as two sticks,” if we are to believe Mrs Bland, his housekeeper—and Mrs Bland was worthy of belief, for she was an honest widow who held prevarication to be equivalent to lying, and who, besides having been in the old bachelor’s service for many years, had on one occasion been plucked by him from under the feet of a pair of horses when attempting the more dangerous than nor’-west passage of a London crossing. Gratitude, therefore, rendered it probable that Mrs Bland spake truly when she said that her master was as cross as two sticks. Of course we admit that her judgment may have been faulty.

      Strange to say Mr Crossley had no reason—at least no very apparent reason—for being cross, unless, indeed, the mere fact of his being an old bachelor was a sufficient reason. Perhaps it was! But in regard to everything else he had, as the saying goes, nothing to complain of. He was a prosperous East India merchant—not a miser, though a cross old bachelor, and not a millionaire, though comfortably rich. His business was prosperous, his friends were numerous, his digestion was good, his nervous system was apparently all that could be desired, and he slept well!

      Standing one morning in the familiar British position before his dining-room fire in London, he frowningly contemplated his housekeeper as that indefatigable woman removed the breakfast equipage.

      “Has the young man called this morning?”

      “Not yet, sir.”

      “Well, when he comes tell him I had business in the city and could wait no—”

      A ring and a sharp knock interrupted him. A few moments later Charlie Brooke was ushered into the room. It was a smallish room, for Mr Crossley, although well off, did not see the propriety of wasting money on unnecessary space or rent, and the doorway was so low that Charlie’s hair brushed against the top as he entered.

      “I called, Mr Crossley, in accordance with the wish expressed in your letter. Although, being a stranger, I do not—”

      The young man stopped at this point and looked steadily at the old gentleman with a peculiarly questioning expression.

      “You recognise me, I see,” said the old man, with a very slight smile.

      “Well—I may be mistaken, but you do bear some resemblance to—”

      “Just so, I’m the man that you hauled so violently out of the cabin of the wreck last week, and shoved so unceremoniously into the life-buoy, and I have sent for you, first, to thank you for saving my life, because they tell me that, but for your swimming off with a rope, we should certainly have all been lost; and, secondly, to offer you aid in any course СКАЧАТЬ